


A Tune To Dance To

by morifiinwe



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: All Romantic Relationships Are Minor, Babies, Daeron And Lúthien Are Siblings, Family Fluff, Fluff, Gen, Half Maia Children Are Fun To Write
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2020-06-30 06:59:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19847956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morifiinwe/pseuds/morifiinwe
Summary: In which families must stick together, and, for the most part, they do.





	A Tune To Dance To

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elvntari](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elvntari/gifts).



> beta read by the wonderful HerAwesomeShinyness  
> i’m trying my hand at proper fluff. lets see how it goes.

The world smelled and sounded and tasted of green. The late afternoon light streamed down through the trees, playing patterns on the stones by the streams that ran down into the river, and the floor of the nursery where Lúthien had left her son to sleep. The water glittered with reflected sunlight and the starlings turned iridescent in the sky. A cool breeze rippled through the leaves, catching the songs of birds and leaving them like a gift on the porch where Lúthien sat. The world was heavy and light and lovely, lovely as the music of the rain.

There was other music too, but it was harder to hear. Its maker did not let it drift where it wished. It stayed with him, for the most part. All but one little tune, so old that the musician thought it faithful, curled away from him like smoke, seeking the listening ear of a dancer that remembered it. It wound its way through branches and leaves, searching for her. It had never been difficult to find her before, but she was ever close and waiting then, and she knew nothing of the musician now. This was a different clearing too, and while the song sensed her, it was not so easy as falling through branches. She was across a river, listening, yes, but to other music, the music of the earth and the air and the water. But she was not dancing. She was sat on the edge of the porch with her legs stretched out in the rain.

The song crept closer, across the river and the little streams, up the stony path and the wooden steps to where Lúthien sat, and rested against her shoulder. She smiled in pleasant recognition, eyes closed, swaying slightly to the tune. She was not so bright as she had once shone, but the peace suited her. She was different, grown. They were all grown, the dancer, the dance, the musician, and the music. There was no returning to Doriath, and all the songs sung there, but there were frogs by the river, and they seemed to suit Lúthien fine.

“Where have you come from?” she asked, facing the world, but speaking to the song. “There’s only one flautist that ever played you.”

The song began wandering back the way it came, back to its musician, and Lúthien, taking the fading sound as a hint, rose and followed it, uncaring for the rain. It was light rain, the kind that barely dampens anything, but kisses the face or the arms or the hair and is gone, leaving not even a chill. She did not find anything cold, it seemed, splashing through streams, leaning more and more into the tune of the song until she was turning to following old steps through the trees to the resting place of a shy musician, who loved her, but would not seek her out.

The music died and sighed and smiled, as the musician started at the sight of her and stopped playing.

“Lúthien?” he pulled down his hood, sounding breathlessly hopeful.

She smiled brightly at him.

“Hello little brother.”

* * * * *

Lúthien did not often get on well with babies. Or, more accurately, babies did not often get on well with Lúthien. Past a certain age, they stopped having problems with her, but newborn babies did not like her at all. Perhaps it was her eyes, or her voice, or the tiny antlers that were slowly but surely disappearing back into her skull. Perhaps babies could see clearly what others could not quite grasp. The specifics mattered little. She just wanted them to like her back.

Her father held her secure in his arms as she peered into the crib. She was dressed in one of his robes, for comfort, while they waited, and though it was far too big in every way, she refused to take it off. It was warm and green, even if the sleeves felt like twice the length of her arms. Lúthien took special care to not let them fall into the crib, grabbing as much fabric as her little hands could manage. Thingol pressed a gentle kiss to her hair, right in between the antlers.

“Say hello to your baby brother Daeron.”

Daeron looked up at Lúthien with fascinated eyes. For several long moments they watched each other, Lúthien bracing herself for the inevitable tears, Daeron deciding what to make of her. He didn’t cry though, instead making a bright, excited noise and smiling up at her, as much as babies can smile. Lúthien turned at her father, looking at him in wide-eyed excitement.

“He likes me!”

“Of course he likes you,” Thingol brushed Daeron’s fluffy hair aside to reveal antlers, much like her own. “You two are very similar.”

With her father’s help, Lúthien freed one of her hands from the sea of fabric, pressing one of her fingers against the gum where one of her front teeth was missing.

“Will he have teeth like me?”

“Little sharp ones like yours? Probably.”

Grinning, she gently nipped the tip of his finger. Her teeth had just begun falling out, but she still had most of them, all sharp and slightly pointed. She wasn’t meant to bite people, affectionately or otherwise, but when she did, she was careful.

“He’ll be a lot like you Lúthien, so you’ll have to teach him all the important things, like how to be gentle with his teeth, and careful with his singing.”

“And fun things too?”

“Plenty of fun things. As soon as he’s big enough, you can take him out into the forest and introduce him to all of the trees.”

At that point, Daeron yawned, and they left him to sleep, and so Lúthien could sit on her mother’s lap and chatter excitedly about all the things she was going to with him when he was older. But later, after she herself had been put to bed, Lúthien snuck back into the room to stare at the sleeping baby. Quietly, so as to not alert anyone, she made him a song, pulling together parts of The Song from the rivers and the flowers and the trees. As she did Doriath shivered, and then stilled. It knew her touch, her voice. One day, it would know Daeron’s too.

* * * * *

The world was audible even inside the house. The gentle patter of the rain, the sound of the little streams, the birds, the frogs. It was the gentle lullaby to which Beren and Lúthien, and now Dior, fell asleep, and the quiet welcome to which they awoke. It was different to Menegroth, which, as astoundingly beautiful as it was, could not replicate the simple beauty of moss underfoot, or the feeling of leaves brushing against your skin. It was a specially designed house too, with nothing that required the use of both hands. It was helpful for new parents, especially one handed new parents.

Daeron watched the way Lúthien moved through it with fascination. It was strange to see her fit so well in such a different world, as a mother and mortal, not the dancing girl he remembered from before. Her child, too, fascinated him. Daeron was among the youngest in Doriath. There weren’t many children that he remembered, but Dior was his nephew, and especially important to him. He wasn’t the only reason Daeron had come to Tol Galen, but he was the reason he’d come when he had.

Lúthien has not let go of Daeron’s hand since she’d found him. Her eyes kept darting back to him, or to the hand she was holding, as if she was concerned he would disappear if she didn’t keep strict watch on him. That was strange too. The Lúthien that Daeron remembered was never so worried about him, had believed that they’d always be in Doriath together, as constant as rivers and trees. But that Lúthien had not stood against Morgoth and Mandos. It should not surprise him so.

She only let go of him when they reached the nursery, where her baby slept. Just looking at him, Daeron felt a strange sense of familiarity, as if he and Lúthien had been sitting there, watching his little chest rise and fall, forever.

“He feels like eternity, doesn’t he?” she was smiling at him knowingly, “I feel it too.”

“And your husband,” he stumbled on the word.

“Beren said something similar, yes. I don’t think anyone but the three of us could understand.”

_ The three of us. _ It was a strange thing to hear. Daeron barely knew Beren, wouldn’t think of them as connected in any way beyond Lúthien, and now Dior. The man was not his family, except he was, which meant that there was a group they would always share. It felt like an intrusion, but Lúthien liked Beren too much for Daeron to ever comment on how something had shifted and everything felt a little wrong.

Instead, he turned his full attention to Dior, who was now smiling in his sleep. He was certainly interesting because, as Daeron was becoming increasingly aware, there was something vaguely off about him, like someone had tried to stitch three different patterns together, and come out with something that almost worked. It was very nearly charming, Daeron found himself thinking, and perhaps a little like him and Lúthien, but more grounded. That would be Beren’s influence, and while in theory it would help, the overall effect was stranger. At the very least, he looked normal, if disconcertingly perfect.

“I wonder what Beren would have done if he’d looked more like us.”

Lúthien laughed, “What, with antlers? I think it would’ve given him a pause, but he would’ve worked with it. By the time we’d returned to Doriath he was used to half-maiar, and their antlers.”

“I still can’t believe you managed all of that.”

“Rude.”

He poked her nose gently, and, as always, she nipped the end of his finger.

“You know I didn’t mean it like that. It’d be hard to believe no matter who did it. I certainly couldn’t have.”

“Could too. You’re a far better musician than me.”

Daeron raised an eyebrow at her.

“Do you want to bet?”

“How would that even work? Would we sneak back into Angband and try our luck against Morgoth? He’s still got two Silmarils.”

“Winner takes all, loser has to deal with the Fëanorians. It’d be the most heroic singing competition I’ve ever participated in.”

Lúthien grinned at him, showing off slightly sharp teeth. Daeron returned a similar smile. They shared, for a moment, the reminder that they could be dangerous, powerful creatures, that Dior would be like them when he grew up. Then the moment passed, and they laughed, because the world was beautiful and the rain was cool and they did not need to be dangerous.

* * * * *

Never, in all their years, would they get lost in Doriath. Even if they took a path they’d never travelled before, the forest would always take them to their destination. It was second nature to them, relying only on their instinct and the guidance of The Song. The forest would disguise them too, would never break their trust. That was rarely useful beyond childish games, but Daeron was glad of it all the same. He tipped his head back against the tree bark with Lúthien’s hand secure in his.

There was a human in the woods. A human. In their woods. There was something equally thrilling and terrifying about his presence and the look in Lúthien’s eyes. Daeron knew that look. It was one of childish excitement, the exact one that she got when she was formulating her wilder plans. Usually, Daeron would follow her lead, no matter how ridiculous it was, but this time he wanted to take her away from the woods, back to Menegroth, just to get her to stop turning back with that look in her eyes.

Lúthien looked over at him, the excitement in her eyes dissipating as she saw his concern.

“I’m not going to run away with him, Daeron. Stop worrying so much.”

It was not the last time she said that to him.

Daeron couldn’t help worrying about her. It was in his nature, the need for her to stay safely in Doriath so that the darkness of the outer world couldn’t creep into their family and tear it apart. He knew the consequences of darkness, had seen it in the eyes of another that he cared for. It was not something that could be easily fixed. It would come to Lúthien, he was sure, if she left with Beren.

It was not his job to protect her, but still he desperately, impulsively did what he thought would.

It was the wrong choice.

* * * * *

They’d sat cooing over Dior for a little longer, Daeron adjusting himself to this different, familiar Lúthien. As the rain began to fall heavier against the roof, Lúthien smiled an old smile and dragged him out to the porch to watch. Her new world was so unlike Menegroth, but so quintessentially  _ Lúthien _ that it was impossible for him to feel anything other than at home.

“Why are you here, Daeron?”

She wasn’t looking at him. Her eyes roved over the streams and trees and creatures of her little world, unreadable to all but those who knew her as well as Daeron did.

“I went looking for you.”

“Why?”

It would be so easy to present her with some lovely message about how he loved her and missed her, but Lúthien knew him as well as he knew her. She knew all those things were true. If that would make her content, she wouldn’t have asked him.

“I messed up. I betrayed your trust. I wanted to tell you I’m sorry.”

“Apology accepted,” she continued smiling sweetly out into the rain, “I suppose you were just trying to protect me”

“I knew you were planning something stupid, if that’s what you mean.”

“I wasn’t going to do anything stupid the first time you snitched.”

Daeron froze, scrambling a response and finding nothing but the awkward truth.

“Well lets just say it was your secret boyfriend or mine.”

“Oh?” Lúthien spun round, fascination plain on her face, “Do tell.”

Daeron flushed red, mumbling the name.

“What was that?” she asked, barely containing her glee. She was enjoying this. It was obvious.

“Maglor,” he repeated.

“The Fëanorion?”

He nodded awkwardly.

Lúthien’s opinion had always meant an awful lot to Daeron, and as much as he tried to convince himself that he didn’t need her to approve of Maglor, he really did. It was unlikely though, after what his brothers had done to her. Daeron couldn’t blame her for sitting in silent shock or anger.

Her gasp for breath made him turn his head. One of her hands was pressed against her mouth and her shoulders were shaking with silent laughter.

“What’s so funny?”

“I’m imagining you trying to explain Maglor to father. And I thought I had a hard time with Beren!”

The animals of Tol Galen were retreating from the rain. Several birds and a pair of frogs sheltered on the porch, but not Lúthien, who was not in the habit of being deterred by any weather.

“Play me a tune to dance to!”

Daeron was only too happy to oblige, if from the dry and marginally warmer porch. It was an old tune, familiar and faithful — when faithfulness suited it — and he gave it free rein to wrap around the dancer and the dance as it had so loved to do before.

This was not the world of before. It was different, and its people were different. The music and The Song continued though, and little bits of the past, the bits that mattered, could still follow their sound through the trees.

**Author's Note:**

> please like and comment if you enjoy it

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] A Tune To Dance To](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24822586) by [morifiinwe podfic (morifiinwe)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/morifiinwe/pseuds/morifiinwe%20podfic)




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